The Darkest Hour

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘So he is not in heaven,’ Lucy interrupted. She was surprised at the hostility in her own voice.

  He gave a half-smile. ‘If he was, he has come back over the threshold to speak to us.’

  She stood up restlessly and paced up and down the floor. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think I should go and leave you to think this through.’

  ‘And you’re not worried that I am going to run away screaming after all this?’

  ‘No, I’m not. You seem remarkably calm. You didn’t run away before and now you are more informed about what is happening and you know he is no danger to you you should be even more so.’

  ‘But that’s the point. I don’t know, do I? You think I am in no danger, but you can’t be sure.’ She was lacing her fingers together as she walked up and down the carpet. ‘You say I have forged a link with him through Evie.’ She swallowed. ‘Perhaps he wants to stop me writing about Evie. Perhaps he wants to silence me.’ She faced him suddenly. ‘You hadn’t thought of that, had you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, because that is not what I think. I have a strong sense that he is trying to communicate with you and my gut feeling is that that is because there is something he wants you to know. He has information.’

  ‘Perhaps he could write it down for me.’ She gave a halfhearted little laugh.

  ‘It has been known.’

  She stared. ‘Seriously?’

  He nodded. ‘Ask him.’ He stood up. ‘I am going to go now, Lucy. Can I come again? Please. To pray, yes, and to see if I can communicate better with Ralph. It may be that we can forge that link more successfully if we go on trying together. Do not become obsessive about it.’ He paused as though considering the word he had used and then nodded. ‘Please go on living in peace here. Joke about him with your friends if it helps you come to terms with his presence, he will understand. But allow him the space to come to you.’ He held out his hand. She shook it, taken aback by the gesture as he put his other hand over hers and stood for a second, looking at her before smiling and turning away. ‘Ring me at any time, Lucy, if you want me to come, and if I don’t hear from you I will be in touch next week anyway to see how you are and if you would like me to return. Stay here now. I will see myself out.’

  She didn’t follow him down to the front door. She heard his steps moving steadily down the old uncarpeted staircase, then nothing as he walked across the gallery with its sisal matting. After a couple of minutes she heard the latch click back, followed by the bell on the front door, then the slam as he pulled it closed behind him.

  She walked slowly back into the studio and stood looking round. ‘He thinks I should talk to you, Ralph,’ she whispered into the silence. She paused, half expecting a response. None came.

  11

  Tuesday 23rd July, 2 a.m.

  Branches were rushing towards her and she heard the crack and agonising scrape of undergrowth against the windscreen. All was a chaotic whirl of green, spinning over and over. She was part of the violence, the thundering, bumping, uncontrolled horror as the speed increased; she could smell petrol, felt the shriek of jagged, torn projectiles, metal against metal, the rain of shattered glass on her face and she flailed out wildly, trying to brace herself as the tree approached, the great trunk standing upright, ancient and solid, moving towards her so fast it was hard to see at all. The impact when it came was sudden and overwhelming. She saw for an instant a sheet of flame then all was black and she was lying sobbing in her bed, the sheet tangled over her, her pillow soaked in sweat and tears.

  Lucy threw herself out of bed before she was properly awake, tore open the bedroom door and staggered downstairs to the kitchen. Switching on the lights she grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap. She was shaking all over, aware that tears were still pouring down her cheeks. Larry. Poor, darling Larry. She had tried to convince herself that he had known nothing about the horrors of the crash, that he had been knocked out before the car had hit the tree and burst into flame. The coroner had said that almost certainly he would have known nothing about it, but in the nightmare she had felt his fear and his pain and his panic as he tried to grab the wheel, tried to steady himself in the spinning, flying car. Oh God! She put down the glass with trembling hands and leaned against the sink, trying to steady the pounding of her heart in her chest. ‘Oh Larry,’ she was sobbing out loud. ‘Darling Larry. Why? Why did it happen? I can’t bear it!’

  She was tempted for a moment to call Huw. Was this what he meant by ‘ring any time’? Surely not in the middle of the night, or had he expected this to happen? Had he realised she would have nightmares?

  No, poor man, she would let him sleep. Larry was not part of the deal. Larry was her problem. Huw had been here for Ralph.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing she headed downstairs and walked through the gallery to the back. She groped blindly for the keys to the security locks and opened the French doors which led out into the little walled garden. It was totally dark outside. She had no idea what time it was. She stepped out barefoot onto the weed-covered terrace, desperate to feel the cool presence of the flowers. Making her way to the small wrought iron table under the pergola she sat down. This had been one of Larry’s favourite places. In the summer, after they had closed up the gallery for the evening, they would come out here with a glass of wine and sit quietly talking over the day’s business and planning – planning for a future which now would never come. Her tears started to flow again and she heard herself sobbing out loud.

  It was a long time before her tears subsided at last. She sat very still, listening to the night noises of the sleeping city. She suppressed another sob with a shiver. It was chilly, she realised suddenly and her bare feet were like ice. With an effort she pulled herself up and made her way back in through the open doors. The gallery was cold and as she pulled them closed behind her she realised the place smelled of flowers from the garden. It was a long time since she had put any cut flowers in here. Tomorrow, no, today, she would do it, find Larry’s favourite white porcelain vase, the one they used to put on the central table and she would fill it with roses for him.

  Upstairs she ran a bath and lay in it for a while. She was exhausted by her crying. The awful reality of the dream had gone, leaving only shards of pain behind. Eventually she climbed out of the bath and dried herself. Wrapped in her bathrobe she went into the bedroom and remade her bed then she climbed in and within seconds she was fast asleep.

  The next thing she knew Robin was knocking on the door of the bedroom. There was a cup of tea in his hand. ‘Not like you to sleep in.’ He put the cup down beside her.

  ‘What time is it?’ She sat up slowly, trying to clear her head.

  ‘Half past nine.’ He pulled a chair towards him and sat astride it, his elbows on the back studying her face. ‘You look like hell,’ he said conversationally. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened when the exorcist came round?’

  She gave a wry grimace and reaching for the cup took a sip of tea. ‘Nothing. Not really. We both thought we sensed something, but there was no sign of Ralph – not the way I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘And that is it? No drama. No screams. No ectoplasm?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. It was a bit of an anti-climax, to be honest.’

  ‘So why do you look as though you had been to hell and back?’

  ‘I had a nightmare.’

  ‘Ah.’ He waited. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘Larry’s crash.’ She found she was breathing heavily suddenly. Her eyes were stinging and the cup rattled on its saucer as her hands began to tremble. Robin jumped to his feet and took the cup and saucer away from her. He put them down then he sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Tell me about it. Get it out of your system, Luce,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I was in the car with him. Not next to him, I was him. It was falling, rolling over and over. He knew about the crash. He was fightin
g to control it. He hadn’t been knocked out. Then it hit the tree and there was fire everywhere.’ Tears were rolling down her cheeks again. ‘I’ve had nightmares about it before, but not like this.’

  He nodded sadly. ‘Poor Lol. He sighed. ‘Poor Luce.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go and open up and let you get dressed then we’ll have a really strong coffee to wake us both up. Good idea? I think you should give Rosebank Cottage a miss today, don’t you?’

  She nodded gratefully. ‘You’re a star, Robin.’

  ‘I know, darling.’ He beamed at her. Neither let on that his smile didn’t – couldn’t – quite reach his eyes.

  September 23rd 1940

  ‘I finished milking early, took my bicycle and peddaled down to Field End tonight. Tony was there waiting for me in the dark, his car tucked right into the hedge. It was so lovely to see him. We made love for a long time, then he said he had to go. His friends would cover for him if anyone noticed he was out but there might be an early morning call and he needed to be able to wake up. He said I had exhausted him!!’

  As they lay in each other’s arms they had heard the distant rumble of thunder. A flash of lightning lit up the horizon.

  ‘For once it isn’t guns,’ she whispered, her lips against his neck. The first heavy drops of rain had started to fall, releasing the heavy scent of the dry earth beneath them and he had rolled over onto his back, opening his mouth to the rain. She laughed silently and kissed him again. ‘Shall we walk up onto the top field?’ she whispered.

  ‘In the rain?’

  ‘Of course in the rain. I adore thunder!’ She climbed to her feet and pulled him up. Taking him by the hand she ran sure-footed up the lane and unlatched the gate into the field. The thunder was coming closer, slow heavy rumbles grumbling up from the coast. They ran out into the middle of the field.

  ‘As a town boy, I can’t help wondering if we’ll be struck by lightning,’ Tony shouted as the noise grew louder round them.

  She laughed. ‘It wouldn’t dare!’ She let go of his hand and raised her arms above her head, spinning slowly, her hair flying out, wet and irrepressible. ‘I love the storm, I love the rain. I love you, Tony Anderson!’

  A fork of lightning streaked across the sky behind the Downs and he made a grab for her. ‘That’s it. Get down. The storm gods will see you. They will claim you with a lightning shaft.’

  They fell to their knees, soaked to the skin, laughing and kissed again. By the time they had returned to the yard they were shivering and drenched. She walked down the lane with him to his car and blew a kiss as he drove away into the night. Already the storm had moved on up the coast. The stars were coming out and the only sound now was the patter of raindrops falling from the hedgerows and trees onto the soft earth beneath.

  Evie closed her diary and tucked it under the mattress, after which she lay back, a towel still round her wet hair, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. She couldn’t stop smiling. This was the second time they had managed an illicit meeting. It had been so easy. No one noticed her absence. All was peaceful at home in contrast to the escalation of the number of attacks by the Luftwaffe over southern England. Her parents were too tired to notice when she came and went as long as she completed her chores. There had been no new land girl to help, but the harvest was over now and safely in, and life on the farm was calming down a bit. She just prayed that the Germans didn’t start night raids in this part of the country.

  Tomorrow would see her first visit to the Woolston factory in Southampton to sketch the girls working on Spitfire parts. She had been given a special permit to go there. Inside she was fluttering with nerves. If she carried off this commission and pleased the Committee she would with luck be offered another assignment, but her dream was to be allowed to go officially to Westhampnett and paint the pilots and their planes. Until then she was going to have to make do with a few hasty visits now and then, never knowing if she was going to see Tony. To make up for the frequent disappointments of not being allowed officially to paint the men waiting with their planes for the call to take off for yet another sortie she made do with the excitement of painting the battles high above in the air. She drew them as a network of vapour trails and smoke and fire, high above the Sussex Downs. But now, with her own private assignations in the dark of the summer nights, that was enough. With a gleeful wriggle she snuggled down into her bed and closed her eyes. Her whole body was alive with the thrill of making love to Tony. At the moment her life was good.

  Friday 26th July

  Lucy was sitting at the table in the studio at Rosebank when Dolly came in. The latter stood for several seconds watching as Lucy tapped away at her laptop entering a sequence of dates. She stopped at last, saved her entries and looked up. ‘I am beginning to work out a definite framework here.’

  ‘That is good.’ Dolly stood looking mesmerised. ‘Do you think you will have enough to write a proper book about her?’

  On Tuesday Dolly had waited in an agony of anticipation, for Lucy to appear, her shopping basket on the chair in the kitchen. In it the diaries and the old log book were almost burning a hole through the paper bag in which she had wrapped them. Her heart was thudding uncertainly. She had almost changed her mind about giving them to Lucy when there had been no sign of her earlier in the week and Dolly had lugged them all the way home on the bus rather than leave them in the cottage. And now Lucy was here but she had arrived late and in the interim there had been a phone call from Mr Michael announcing that he and Charlotte Thingy were on their way down and would be here by lunchtime.

  Scrutinising Lucy’s face, Dolly noted the exhaustion there and the sadness in Lucy’s eyes and forgave her for not coming in on Tuesday, but her impatience and anguish were still very real.

  Lucy looked up, suddenly aware of Dolly’s distress. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong?’ Dolly was clutching a paper bag which looked as though it contained books.

  Dolly put the bundle down in front of her. ‘Evie’s diaries. As I promised.’

  Lucy stared down at the packet in sudden excitement. ‘Oh, Dolly. You don’t know what this means to me.’ She reached for them and began to open the paper bag. ‘You haven’t read them I think you said?’

  Dolly shook her head. ‘It wasn’t my place.’

  In the bag were three hardback notebooks, one with a blue cover, one green and one red, all shabby and well thumbed, perhaps old-fashioned quarto in size. Lucy extricated them carefully from the wrapping and, pushing aside her laptop, laid them side by side on the table in front of her.

  She reached for the red one and opened it carefully. The book was ruled with narrow lines but it was not printed up as a diary. Evie had entered her own dates at the head of each new entry. Her writing was free flowing, hasty, almost excited, cramped in places, in others spilling over the constraint of the lines on which it was written as if impatient of the limitations put on it by the format of the page. In places there were little sketches. Lucy caught her breath hardly able to breathe for excitement. She turned towards the end of the book where the last few pages were blank. The last heading was 8th November 2000. The writing here was weaker. For the first time it seemed aimless and tired. ‘Just a few days before she died,’ she said gently as she looked up at Dolly.

  Dolly nodded bleakly. ‘I put it away for her in the chest of drawers in her bedroom with the other one. That is how I knew where they were. I tucked them under some of her clothes.’

  Lucy turned back to the book and read. ‘The weather is bad again. The light is still too bad to paint even if I had the energy. Johnny is coming tomorrow with Juliette and Michael. It will be good to see them. I hope I am strong enough to get up. This wretched cough is no better.’

  That was it. Her last entry. Lucy looked up trying to hide the sudden rush of emotion which threatened to overwhelm her. ‘Johnny was Michael’s father, that’s right isn’t it?’

  Dolly nodded. ‘What does she say?’ In spite of her resolution not to read the thing she was clearl
y dying of curiosity.

  ‘She was waiting for a visit from Johnny and Juliette and Michael.’

  Dolly nodded. ‘Juliette is Mr Michael’s mother. A wonderful lady. She and Evie were very fond of each other.’ She sighed and sat down abruptly on the only other chair at the table. She took a deep breath. ‘Evie died three days later, after I put the diary away for her. ‘

  Lucy was silent for a few moments. She closed the diary, sitting for a while, lost in thought, with her hand on the cover. ‘I don’t think I realised Michael’s mother was still alive?’ she said cautiously at last.

  ‘Oh, yes. His father died two years ago and she went to live in Brighton.’

  Lucy frowned. There was so much of Evie’s life still to catch up with. Neither Michael nor Dolly had thought to mention that Michael’s mother was still around, a woman who must have known Evie well.

  ‘Would I be able to go and see her?’ she asked at last. Aware of their reaction to her suggestion that she meet Christopher she was careful to keep the urgency out of her voice.

  ‘You would have to ask Mr Michael. I don’t see why not. She married again, you know.’

  No, I don’t know! Lucy almost said it out loud. She hid her exasperation with an effort. ‘I’ll ask him when I see him next.’

  Dolly’s face darkened as she suddenly remembered the phone call. ‘I forgot to say, he rang just now to say he is on his way back. He’s taking the day off. With Charlotte Thingy. He’ll be here by lunchtime.’

  They looked at each other. Lucy made a sudden decision. ‘I think if she is going to be here I might just take myself home. It won’t be a good time to talk to him about Evie and I can just as easily enter this stuff there. Besides, I would love to read the diaries undisturbed.’

  Dolly nodded. ‘You don’t want her to see them. If she realises how valuable they are she might just want to get her hands on them.’